


Therapy

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, Drug Use, Erotica, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Ficlet, Heroes to Villains, Heterosexual Sex, Love/Hate, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-War, Public Sex, The Quidditch Pitch: Erotic Couplings, The Quidditch Pitch: Going Under
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-27
Updated: 2009-05-27
Packaged: 2018-10-27 12:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10809462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Voldemort wins the war. How two people deal with the remnants of their destroyed lives.





	Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

We’re fucking like rabbits, and as I glance over my shoulder, I get this perfect sideways view of Greece at night, swaying back and forth with Malfoy’s thrusting. I’m going to come soon. Greece starts to blur and suddenly Malfoy’s hand is grabbing my jaw.  
  
“Look at me,” he growls, his eyes burning into me.  
  
He’s so fucking hot.  
  
I’m forced to look into his eyes, even though I don’t want to. His gray eyes are so fucking full of hate, they’re so cold and brutal and they lock me in and make me feel alone and trapped. He growls as I clench around him. His eyes terrify me but I’m so fucking close to coming. The Greek skyline sways below me.  
  


His eyes cut off my air supply.   
  
\--  
  
I look at Ginny Weasley as she sucks in on a cigarette while trying to balance a kid on her knee. I feel bad for her.   
  
She’s a hooker now.  
  
The kid is crying and trying to rip open her shirt, to get at her tits. They’re huge, but starting to sag, and that depresses her. Damn shame. Her life is going to crumble apart any day; it’s held together with string, and she cares about her sagging tits.  
  
When she dies, I’ll probably have to take care of those five brats. I won’t mind, except with James. He has Harry’s eyes. I haven’t looked that kid straight in the eyes since the hour of his birth. I’m a coward. And I’m bitter. I would apologize, but to who?  
  
\--  
  
His eyes suffocate me, as if squeezing around my neck tighter and tighter, just his gaze cuts off the air. It is when I feel that I’m right at the end, when I know I can tumble over into the abyss, then I can let go.  
  
\--  
  
The fucked up thing is, Malfoy was a virgin, and I, of all people, was the one to free him of that status.  
  
I hold a brightly coloured bottle of Muggle diet pills in my hands. Muggles; they want to be ugly so badly that they’re ready to swallow poison for it. Fine, fine. I know. I’m just bitter. Ugly is a harsh word. They want to be thin. Whatever.  
  
I pop the top off the jar and spill half the contents into my palm. This is going to be fun.  
  
The other half lands in Malfoy’s palm, his pale, soft palm. Boyish, I would describe him. The hardness in his eyes hasn’t even consumed him yet. He is almost cute.  
  
And it’s funny that I fucked him up. You want to know why it was possible? Because I had gone looking for Harry Fucking Potter in Switzerland. And New Zealand. And France. And when I got back, I was too heartbroken to be the good little book worm Hermione Fucking Granger anymore. Sad, isn’t it? Pathetic.  
  
\--  
  
We’re on top of the Eiffel Tower, and I’m on top. His glare closes in around my throat as Paris’s glowering lights bathe us in florescent vulnerability. I’m close. I can tell because I don’t care whether or not we fall off the Eiffel Tower and flatten against the pavement. My nails dig into his shoulders and he hisses in pain, his eyes intense, almost black with passionate rage.  
  
Rage at his father, who raped two Muggle-born girls before being physically restrained by a friend. Rage at Bellatrix, who fed him lies his whole life, and then tortured him on a whim. Rage at his mother, who turned a blind eye to the bloodshed around her. Who refused to touch the Muggle-born girl, so close to death at Fenrir’s hands.  
  
Rage at himself for not having stopped it.  
  
It’s terrifying, and that’s why it gets me off. Don’t judge me. We’re all fucked up from the war and its implications. Malfoy and I, well this is therapy.  
  
From the top of the Eiffel Tower, everything else seems insignificant. Malfoy’s hips reach up to thrust harder into me as I push down. I’m sore but I’ll never let him know, I won’t show that weakness. It fucking hurts sometimes, but it feels too good to stop. We’re all sickos, aren’t we?  
  
\--  
  
I’m panting and gasping for air, staring up into the cold, dead eyes of my torturer. My blood spatters against the concrete floor of Azkaban prison. You know you’re crazy when you look forward to your torturer’s arrival. Because at least it’s human contact.  
  
I’m sitting there, cowering in the corner, but I’m a sicko so I don’t want this sadist to leave me. And then Malfoy appears like a fucking hero. Some big savior. What a fuck. He tells the guy to leave me alone. He drags me out of Azkaban and I look at myself in the sunlight.  
  
I look like a perfect Muggle, with my ribs sticking out of my chest. Sorry, sorry; still bitter.  
  
\--  
  
The kid latches on to Ginny’s nipple and sucks for all its worth. Ginny’s expression hardens because her tits are only going to sag more.  
  
She breathes the cigarette smoke out right above the kid’s head.  
  
Don’t hold it against her – cigarettes don’t do anything harmful to magic folk. They’re just putrid.  
  
“I’m so glad you visited.” Her tone is dead, betraying her words. But she is glad. She’s just pregnant again, and she knows very well that with each baby, the chances of surviving childbirth worsen. Everything sounds dead and unexciting when you think your death may be scheduled for about seven months from now. All that shit about living life to the fullest is … well … shit. Ginny is fucking depressed. What scares her even worse than death is having a girl, because she knows that any daughter of hers will wind up just like her; a dirty hooker stripped of all dignity.  
  
Another kid runs into the dirty room, about the size of a large closet.  
  
“Mummy, Mummy,” he whines, his arms outstretched. A while ago, that would have appealed to me. Now … eh.  
  
“What, what?” Ginny tries, for the kid’s sake, to inject her voice with some compassion.  
  
I said before that I wouldn’t mind dragging these kids around after Ginny dies. And she will die eventually. Well, it’s not true. I’ll be scared shitless. Because Ginny Weasley raises her kids to be warriors. They are little military men, except without uniforms. They know how to cast an Avada Kadabra curse on small animals. Don’t blame Ginny though – she lost her fucking mind after we got back from looking for Harry. When she realized he would never, ever come back to her, she broke down and never got back up.  
  
She tried to miscarry. I’ll never tell James.  
  
\--  
  
My long fingernails drag down his back, clawing at the flesh. It draws blood. Paris jerks up and down because I’m so close. One of my nipples is in Malfoy’s mouth. He bites on it gently and I growl. Because he’s being too gentle. He’s not as into it as I am.  
  
\--  
  
My heart races so fast I think it could burst. But I know that would only happen to a Muggle. I hear it in my in my ears. The beating isn’t even a beat anymore; it is quick enough to be a constant tone. Background noise.  
  
Malfoy’s eyes are wide as shit. I mean his eyeballs are about to pop out of his head, maybe literally. It’s, like, ten degrees out, and we don’t feel a thing. We look out over Rome, over the coliseums and ancient architecture and it’s almost funny because we can’t really see it because all we can focus on is our heartbeats. It’s terrifying to be on the edge of a cliff and not to care. The diet pills will do that to you if you take twenty at a time.  
  
Malfoy grabs me and kisses the shit out of me, so I can’t breathe. He kisses me like he loves me, which is sweet of him because I know he is incapable of love anymore.  
  
His hands squeeze my tits, a little timidly, and he keeps kissing me so that I won’t look down at his cock. Though, really, there’s nothing to be ashamed of in that department. Really. He’s shy, and I think that’s funny, so I laugh, but it comes out as his nervous, jumpy noise, too quick for natural laughter. I step backward and almost slip on the empty bottle of pills.  
  
My fucking heart is going so fast I feel like I’m about to be run over by a train. And Malfoy keeps kissing me.  
  
It’s all for the best that we remain in liplock, because his eyes still have some innocence to them, and it breaks my heart. Me and my compassion – I can’t stand looking into his eyes.  
  
\--  
  
I look out over Amsterdam, over an Italian countryside, over the nearest hanger in the closet. Over Turkey, over Milan, over Paris again. It’s almost like we fuck too much.  
  
If I get pregnant, I’ll say it’s some other bastard’s. Malfoy can’t be a father. I can’t be a mother, either, but that’s beside the point. Sometimes I think being dead inside is the best birth control there is. Then I remember Ginny.  
  
\--  
  
The sunlight hurts my eyes after being in my cell for so long. I feel detached from most emotion, but I do think it’s funny the way Malfoy glances at me, and then looks away quickly. Because he’s frightened of me for looking so demented. I’m pale as a ghost and my cheeks are deflated. My tangled brown curls puff out around me in a perfect ring.  
  
“I’ll accept your ‘thank you’ whenever you’re ready,” Malfoy quips. What a baby. A prison guard in a black cloak rows us away from Azkaban, toward freedom.  
  
The sun shines brightly on my face, and I think, It’s too bright. I don’t think I’ve ever stopped thinking that.  
  
\--  
  
Paris sings to us as Ginny exhales another puff of her cigarette. Malfoy is bleeding and his eyes pour liquid hate into me. Ginny whispers in her child’s ear, “Death is the ultimate glory – the death of an enemy.” She doesn’t even remember the kid’s name. Maybe he doesn’t have one.  
  
\--  
  
After fucking in any one place, Malfoy and I burn that place, and the surrounding area, to the ground. Well, metaphorically speaking. Life is too horrific to explain point-blank, and emotions are too abstract to convey without metaphors. So I cower behind metaphors to tell this story, because it is too painful, and because I’m too bitter to face the truth.  
  
We douse the whole place in gasoline and light a match and watch it burn. We watch the tall Muggle buildings collapse. That’s the most fun of all.  
  
\--  
  
I now know how a bull feels. I’m surrounded by red – miles of red silk that spread out around me majestically. My face is hidden beneath a red veil. Everybody else in attendance sits within a radius of at least five seats away. I’m a leper. And I don’t care. Malfoy told me that if he ever dies, to go to his funeral in red. I don’t know why – he’s as sick of a fuck as I am. So I go all out – why not? I buy myself a ridiculous amount of red tulle and silk, and craft myself a set of billowing robes with a long train, and a matching veil that wraps around my head several times. In my hands I hold a bouquet of red silk roses. The sky is about to burst open with rain, and everybody around me wears solemn black.  
  
Malfoy’s casket is elegant black – shiny. I find myself wondering how much it would go for.  
  
But I’m not sad, not even perturbed, because Draco Malfoy sits right next to me, smirking at all the mourners he’d fooled. He wears a highly conspicuous black cloak that hides his face completely, but every now and again I catch a glimmer of his eyes, and I know I’m not mistaken. Malfoy, that dog, had the nerve to show up at his own funeral.  
  
I actually think it’s sort of funny.  
  
There are two possible reasons this is happening. One: I’m crazy, and this is a hallucination. If this is just a figment of my imagination, I’ll accept it, but I won’t even try to banish it. And two: He’s actually here, clinging to this half-life, at his own funeral, and I’m almost positive he’s wearing a triumphant smirk.  
  
Everything looks fuzzy and red through the tulle, and the air that filters through is sticky and moist. A preacher at the head of the ceremony speaks slowly and solemnly, his black eyes dead. We should be burying him.  
  
Malfoy’s hand rests on my thigh and moves upward and inward.  
  
\--  
  
The little Greek village burns beneath us, a beautiful inferno against the night sky. The smoke that billows above the chaos is like a dark halo, obscuring the torturous pain underneath. It is the smoke that Ginny breathes out of her mouth for the hundredth time that day; that pours out of her mouth and curls lazily up toward the ceiling. The fire is the words that she whispers into the little boy’s ear. “Fighting is honor. Violence is bravery.” And the village that will be a charred beyond recognition? Why, that’s everything that used to be good, isn’t it? Burning in Ginny’s hateful words, burning in all our hateful words, obscured and hidden by a glum haze of cigarette smoke.  
  
March, little soldier, march on. Someday, your mother will die in labor, or from a hard slap against the face. That’s all it will take. Another day, you will die fighting an impenetrable regime. You will fall as an insignificant foot soldier, one that will be thrown in an unmarked grave and abandoned. Nobody will remember.  
  
\--  
  
What’s sad is that Malfoy is the closest I’ll ever come to loving something else. I can’t even get a cat without wanting to release it, to spare it. Malfoy, I hate too much to let him go – I love torturing him with my presence.  
  
We sit side by side, though about a meter apart. We don’t touch – it’s an unspoken rule between us. After we finish fucking, no physical contact.  
  
Malfoy and I sit and look at Rome as it burns. Metaphorically, of course. We each hold a bottle of Firewhisky. We don’t bother toasting, and just gulp down the burning liquid to perk us up after the diet pill crash. Alcohol is basically the only thing I taste anymore. Ever since I left Azkaban, I can’t taste food properly.  
  
Malfoy sits a safe distance away. He is naked but still doesn’t feel cold. I almost feel bad because I can see the hatred start to creep in around his irises.  
  
\--  
  
We’re fucking in a church. One of those old, gothic buildings, all majestic and shit, with stained glass windows and those black lacy towers. Domed ceilings and candles covering every square inch of the place. You whisper and it echoes around at least a dozen times.  
  
He has me against the wall, which is made of ancient, rough stone. It feels the way that a stormy sea looks. The skin on my back is getting all raw and scratched up from the stone, and I think I have a million, barely bleeding little scratches along my back. A normal person would cry out to have him stop, but I’m deranged, remember? Every time he thrusts, the stone’s edges cut deeper. It fucking stings but I’d rather die than have him stop. He’s going quickly today. Moonlight streams in through the slots in the walls, the narrow windows. It’s twilight. The candles are still lit from before the place closed.  
  
He thrusts hard, again and again, his lips pressed against my ear. “Look at me, look at me, look at me,” he growls in a feral way. But he doesn’t draw his head back – I don’t even think he realizes he’s saying it.  
  
His jaw feels tight against my cheek as he keeps growling at me to look at him.  
  
I am so fucking close. I can already see this place burning, melting to the ground, and a shiver of delight runs through me. I clutch at Malfoy as though I love him, though in reality I only need him.  
  
He stretches me so that I know I will be sore tomorrow. Whatever. If I’m sore tomorrow, we’ll just do it again, to get my mind off the pain.  
  
My legs are wound around his pale waist; my mouth at his neck, biting into the skin when he thrusts too hard, which is of course just perfect. Malfoy is hard everywhere, cold with hatred and indifference. People like that, like us, can only survive if we live in pairs, fucking in our spare time. His eyes are black now, with lust and hate and rage, and despair, because he feels like nobody will ever look at him again.  
  
I know this, because I’m the perfect mirror of it.  
  
My nails dig into the skin on his shoulders, and I hope I draw blood, to make us even for my back.  
  
Malfoy thrusts again, harder still. He starts to shake and I know that’s he’s close now, too.  
  
Let go, a miniscule, wretched voice of hope whispers in my ear.  
  
\--  
  
His hand has worked expertly between the folds of my new, red robes. He knows where his hand can slither into the fabric, so he could get between my legs.  
  
Because nobody dared sit next the freak in red silk and an elaborate veil, nobody will see, unless I start squirming or screaming.  
  
My bottom lip bleeds as I bite too hard into it. I want to spit out the sudden torrent of blood but it’s not ladylike.  
  
Malfoy makes small rings around my clit with his fingertip. That’s all he does, and I’m ready to bite his head off.  
  
It’s torture, because there are people all around us, mourning for a man that’s not even dead.  
  
That’s so like humans, to mourn something that isn’t dead. Ginny mourns her life, she mourns her sons. Ginny even mourns her tits. Everybody here mourns their hearts.  
  
The tears are real, but this whole thing seems like a farce. We are all in a state of constant mourning, though nobody died. These people might as well by burying themselves. Just as I’m about to laugh at the absurdity of this assembly, the skies burst open with steady rain. Almost instantaneously, an umbrella hovers over every head, a sea of black rubber, with rain falling above it and tears falling beneath.  
  
Malfoy and I don’t need an umbrella. We’re already exposed to life at maximum volume; protection at this point is superfluous.  
  
His fingers grind against me, almost uncomfortably, but I love it. In a matter of seconds, the funeral, the ghostly preacher, even the miles of red silk are nothing. I am nothing. Malfoy is even closer to nothing than he usually is. I try to repress the shudder that builds up within me, but some of it escapes from my lips and my fingertips.  
  
I’m coming in the middle of a funeral, as Draco Malfoy’s casket is lowered slowly into the moist, cold, hard earth. I cry out inadvertently, and realize that my groan sounds like one of grieving.  
  
\--  
  
There is but one romantic aspect of the relationship between Malfoy and I; we have made plans of how we will remain together for the rest of our lives. There will come a time, in some amount of years, when we will run away to a city we haven’t burned down yet. We will simultaneously wipe each other’s minds clean of everything, and replace our old, bitter memories with somewhat fabricated ones. We will instill it in our memories that we are man and wife. We are Muggles, and we will set up a perfect accident to feign amnesia. We will be admitted to a Muggle hospital where they will determine that we have lost our memories.  
  
Draco and I will return to our little house in this Muggle city (we will, of course have bought a house and settled it before wiping our minds) and get old together.  
  
I already know that just as Malfoy’s wand will press to my temple, I’ll tremble in fear and grief. I will instantly miss the better memories of my childhood and Hogwarts, but then the spell will cleanse it all away. And we will be Muggles, in a little house in a Muggle city. And we will never hate each other again.


End file.
